


Dread from Man or Beast

by blcwriter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alive Laura Hale, Angst, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Sex, Dubious Consent, Episode: s03e03 Fireflies, Episode: s03e04 Unleashed, F/M, Fem!Stiles - Freeform, Fuck Or Die, Genderswap, Magic, Meta, Multiple Selves, Multiverse, Off-Screen Major Character Death, Orphans, PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In which Stiles Stilinskis everywhere, everywhen know if you want something done at all-- you'd better do it yourself.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girl who slid in through his window didn’t slide so much as… fall and flomp onto the floor, before she rolled, flopped, and then shoved herself gamely upright in a clash of plaid pants, red Doc Marten 8-holes, and a polka-dot blouse with an argyle cardigan as she turned to face him—breaking his pity-party for one in the most graceless way he’d ever seen. Whatever she was, she was no werewolf.
> 
> “Alright, c’mon, pants off, these fucking druids are going to get us sooner or later,” she said, dropping her sweater onto the floor and then shucking her blouse, revealing a pale, skinny ribcage dotted with moles and barely-there boobs under a Catwoman bra.
> 
> A Catwoman bra.
> 
> “Oh. Shit,” he answered.
> 
> “You think?” she asked, elevating an eyebrow even as she pulled off her belt and started getting her pants undone.

The girl who slid in through his window didn’t slide so much as… fall and flomp onto the floor, before she rolled, flopped, and then shoved herself gamely upright in a clash of plaid pants, red Doc Marten 8-holes, and a polka-dot blouse with an argyle cardigan as she turned to face him—crashing his pity-party for one in the most graceless way he’d ever seen. Whatever she was, she was no werewolf.

“Alright, c’mon, pants off, these fucking druids are going to get us sooner or later,” she said, dropping her sweater onto the floor and then shucking her blouse, revealing a pale, skinny ribcage dotted with moles and barely-there boobs under a Catwoman bra.

A Catwoman bra.

“Oh. Shit,” he answered.

“You think?” she asked, elevating an eyebrow even as she pulled off her belt and started to take off her pants. 

“This is beyond fucked up,” he said, but he was getting out of his chair and pulling off his t-shirt because—Danny really was kind of an asshole, and who was he going to ask, Lydia? he wasn’t going to do that ever again—and no way, asking Derek, Stiles didn’t even want to think about the alpha’s damage—and other him—her—had on Wonder Woman panties. And cat socks. No. She was a better option than all the… yeah. The pack and the humans he knew had other things on their minds. Of course only he—she—would think up something this crazy. But it made sense. And of course she was an even worse dresser than him—he said so, because impulse control? Who gave a shit, anyway.

“Fuck you,” she said, but there wasn’t any heat in it, and her eyes were just as sad as the ones he saw in the mirror when he made the mistake of actually looking. “I’m at least making an effort at being deliberately quirky with my crazy chick style, you’re just pulling on whatever you can find in the closet just because mom never wore solids.”

Right. He never did have enough tact. He swallowed the lump in his throat and didn’t respond—at least not to that. “How’d you… did Deaton?”

Lady-Stiles, yeah, he was going with that, snorted. “Cryptic asshole. Nope. Sorry, pal, I’m a little ahead of you with the spark thing, you’re going to have to catch up, but if we live through this then I’ll come back, give you some stuff to read, copacetic?”

She yanked down his boxers and looked at his dick—well, like he would if he was a girl and was wondering what he’d look like if he had a dick. 

“Not bad,” she said, taking it in her little hand and giving it an experimental tug. “Please tell me you have stuff here, because I’m pretty sure it’s impossible even with magic to get your self pregnant, but I’m not ruling out shit.”

He nodded, then fumbled to his backpack as she let go of his dick and crawled up on his bed—she still had her socks on, mismatched superhero underwear and everything.

“You’re… littler,” he said, because-- _wow, I’m kind of pretty but how the hell did you handle getting this shit beat out of you by Gerard when you’re Lydia’s size?_ was conversation even Stiles could dig you didn’t get into right before you were about to fuck or die with yourself.

“You’re cuter,” she said, unhooking her bra and tossing it onto the floor, then shimmying out of her underwear, too. “I figured you’d look dorky like me.”

Weird. Stiles had been thinking that—if he’d met her at school he’d have thought her curly, disheveled bob was pretty damned cute, and that she was skinny but lean like she duh, ran with werewolves, cute enough that he might have made some stupid joke and smiled at her because he had no game but that didn’t mean he didn’t try playing, regardless. She was cuter than pretty much most of the girls he’d known except—the pack and Heather. Cuter than Heather, and he shut that line of thinking down. Now.

Maybe the assembly of clashing clothing was armor, too, just like his plaids. 

He kicked off his boxers and climbed up on his bed, wondering where he should…—“Um…”

She arched an eyebrow, one he could read perfectly well. _I may be more magic, dumbass, but I’m still a virgin, you think I know?_ She said, though, voice a little shaky…. “C’mon. Dude. I’m in the same boat as you. How about…” she looked down, her cheeks flushing, “the porno with the librarian and the girl with the late fines? How about that?”

He blinked, because that was one he didn’t know. Apparently some things weren’t universal. She blinked back, then threw herself back into the bed, groaning. Her breasts, little as they were, stood up against her ribs—there was a set of scars going down over her ribcage, silvering now.

“Hey. What’s, what’s this?” he asked, tracing one of the lines, because yeah, sure, mortal terror for the last almost year, but he hadn’t gotten clawed and those looked, well-- old. “How long have you been dealing with werewolves?”

She grabbed his hand, pulled it away, and glared at him with annoyance. “Too fucking long, now come on, are we going to do this or are we really going to have to go embarrass us in front of Lydia, or God forbid, Derek?”

Right. She was right. 

Well. He hadn’t seen the librarian porno but—there was that one with the two girls that he liked, and little Stiles wasn’t quite intellectually ready for the idea of devirginizing himself—so. Yeah. Attempted foreplay. 

A few licks in, she tugged his hair and shoved her fingers down between her legs, pulling herself open, a look of terrified impatience growing thin on her face. “This, this is a clit. Lick that, suck on it, whatever, and your fingers go in the hole, for fuck’s sake, keep going until everything’s wet and you’re hard. If you’re not getting hard, tell me, I’ll see if I can manage to blow you.”

It took him a couple more licks, but then—he just told his brain to shut the fuck up about the fact that yes, he was eating out his alternate self, and concentrated on the mechanics of clit and fingers and getting her wet. She was tight—stiff, too, quiet, not making a lot of noise, and not that Stiles had ever thought about what having sex with female him would have been like, but—he’d have liked his first time to be at least not horrible, everything else to the side. 

He licked harder, stuck his fingers into his mouth and wondered if all girls tasted like that, salty and sour and musky, then stuck his fingers back in, trying to see if she’d open up for him. He must’ve started doing something right because one of her legs suddenly slung over his back, her heel hooking in behind his neck like she’d kick him in the brainstem if he stopped. 

Apparently little Stiles liked the idea of being paralyzed by the person he was giving head to, because he could feel himself getting harder as she got wetter, easier to finger—he slipped in another and curled them, and that got him a moaned—“Yeah, that, again.”

He did that again. 

It was sloppy, and his face was all messy and wet—she was squirming and moaning and grabbing his hair, which apparently he kind of liked, and then she went stiff with no warning, a small little “oh,” as she shuddered, her vag clenching a little around his fingers as she squirmed and then whined when he licked her again—then slurped at her, sucking her clit into his mouth because oh, he just made her come. That was cool. He wanted to do that again. 

She squirmed away, though, red cheeked and her hair in about fifteen directions, her nipples hard and her chest all splotchy. “Um… yeah. Now you,” she panted, and shoved him back until he was practically hanging with his head off the bed, the both of them laughing when she groaned “Oh, my god, I’d like to believe that there’s one of us, somewhere, that has some kind of grace, but I really don’t think so,” but eventually he managed to get kind of straightened out on the bed and then she gave his dick an eyeing like she—well, like she was thinking about believing in magic the same way Stiles tried to.

“This is probably gonna suck,” she said, a quirk to her mouth, and Stiles couldn’t help it, he started to laugh, but then she grabbed the base of his dick and licked him, then licked him again, little cat licks like she was just going to taste him all over and oh, fuck, that was good. “Nnno, doesn’t,” he started to say, but then she was putting him into her mouth and running her tongue around his dick until it hit the roof of her mouth. He could feel her choke and he tried to push himself up, but a little, nail-bitten hand pushed on his chest. 

“I’ve got this,” she said, sounding hoarse as she pulled off and then licked the crown of his head again, jerking him a bit with her hand and then licking her palm as she coughed, cleared her throat, and then went down on him again with a look of determination that made Stiles wonder why the hell anyone ever got blow jobs if they were so hard.

Although apparently other-him-her was a quick study, because she figured it out really damned— “If you don’t, ungh,” he managed, and she pulled off with a pop, even more red faced and her lips all swollen. His dick slapped back onto his stomach and she snorted at the wet noise—he snorted too. Anyone who said sex was pretty was a fucking liar.

“Um…” she said, and he flailed sideways, dragging over the bag and the condom where he’d stashed it because he wasn’t having it fall out of his pocket again. She didn’t say anything at the wrapper—just quirked her mouth like she knew there was some typical Stiles story involved, then pinched the tip and unrolled it on him. 

“Huh,” she said, when it turned out it really wasn’t all that too big. 

“Why don’t you,” he started to say, even as she slung herself up, grabbing his dick with a “I think I should,” so yeah, he grabbed his dick and tried not to groan or shoot off while she worked herself onto him, a frown on her face. She was so tight, and he—he wasn’t going in, and…

“I have an idea,” he said, and before she could argue, because Stiles knew himself and he always argued, he flipped them so she was on her back again, and then he went down on her again, ignoring the taste of latex and spermicide (blech) from the condom and shoving his tongue in her hole as he fingered her clit. She yelped, but it started to work and she was squirming pretty quickly, breath getting hard and Stiles’ face getting all wet, so he told his dick to shut the fuck up about its insistence on _now, oh my God, now_ and tongue fucked her while he rubbed his thumb over her clit until she was legit, outright moaning like an actual porno, not-words and squeaks and all that good stuff—and then she jolted, a little squeak like someone had—well, he’d seen Erica bite the head off a rabbit, unpleasant, but still, that was the noise—and she was so wet, looser now, and he grabbed his dick and lined up, trying it now…

“Oh my _god_.”

He wasn’t sure which one of them said it. Probably both. He pulled out a little, tried sliding back in, and there, she kicked her heels into his back, clamped her legs around him—strong thighs, did she run cross country too—and said, “Go, just go, do it, come on.”

He shoved all the way in. She stiffened, fingers scrabbling and pulling his hair more than a little bit painfully, but she clenched her eyes shut and oh—fuck, yeah. Shit. 

“Are you,” he started to ask, because fuck, he was an asshole, but she un-bit her lip and said “Move, just, start, come on,” swiping her tongue over her lips and glassy eyes glaring at him as she literally giddy-upped him with her heels. 

Right. 

Well, he was apparently an impatient asshole in every universe, even if he-Stiles had the additional burden of having forgotten about the whole, you know, hymen thing. 

He moved.

She let go of her grip on his hair long enough to reach between them and rub at her clit, like she needed the friction to get herself excited again—and damn if that wasn’t a challenge even if he was new at this, okay, so he pulled her hand back and hitched his hands under her hips because he’d seen that enough in the porn, tried to get a different angle, and—

“Oh.” That was better— she moaned when he pulled out again, and grabbed at him in a non-kicky, hurry-up kind of way, and then it was—yeah. Riding a bike. In a sweaty, hot, smelly, much better kind of way. Even if druids were trying to kill you and your friends and you were having sex with yourself because no one else probably would. 

Afterward, she rolled over and handed him tissues, blowing her own nose and blotting her eyes, then shrugged when they didn’t hit the basket from her limp-handed toss. Well. It wasn’t like she was going to tell anyone that they’d both cried for—well. It wasn’t an optimal situation, but at least it was done, and it hadn’t been horrible. He had gotten her off, as fucked up as it all was.

“When’s Dad going to be home?” she asked, snuffling and rubbing her hand over her eyes.

“He’s got the overnight.” She bit her lip, nodding and closing her eyes on some thought he could probably guess at, another tear leaking out that she swiped at, laughing at herself as she got up. 

“Well. This was awful. And weird. I should show you that spell. Can I…” she asked, tilting her head at the shower…

He nodded, because… yeah.

He pulled on some boxers, gathered her clothes and set them on top of her bureau, tried to restrain his curiosity, and then—didn’t. Her driver’s license had the female variant of his awful first name but—why was she living with Scott? Unless. He found the edge of the bed as he flomped down when he found the picture of her and his Dad—their Dad, taken maybe three years ago, the one stuffed in her wallet and laminated, the edges frayed like she pulled it out to look at all of the time.

Right.

“Too fucking long,” she had said. Those clawmarks on her chest weren’t the only scars she had, either, but Stiles knew all about not wanting to talk, and he hadn’t pressed. Giving your other self a panic attack wasn’t the best of ideas.

He took his turn in the shower when she came back in the room, curls dripping drops onto her shoulders and towel demure around her, like they hadn’t just—done shit he’d only read in fanfiction before. 

When he came back into the room, she was dressed and tapping away on his computer, some book he’d never seen in page scans up on the screen. “The internet is a wonderful thing,” she said, a small smirk on her face. “If we don’t all get killed, I’ll come back in two weeks. Read the first three hundred pages of that, it’ll get you started.” She headed out toward the window and was crouched halfway out when Stiles called—

“Hey.”

She paused, looking back, looking—tired.

“You’re not dorky-looking at all. You should, I dunno, kick anyone in the nuts who thinks so. They’re wrong.”

She blinked, swallowed. Nodded, because Stiles was a lot of things, but he never lied to himself. And then she jumped out the window, called “See you,” and Stiles ran to look, heart in his mouth as she fell and—winked out, a foot from the ground.

Apparently he was a little dramatic, much, everywhere. A data set of two was _so_ statistically significant.

The stars above winked, but for the first time in a while, they didn’t seem so far away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why the hell she’d gotten so angry _this_ time at Peter’s snark, at Laura’s distrust of the humans (seriously, Stiles would dig Kate up and kill her all over again, but not for the sake of pacifying Laura), at all of the wolves’ continuing to ignore Team Human’s research about the darach and the threat that it posed instead of the alphas? Why the hell had she lost it today—and why was the Hales’ general bullshit, and not something that made fucking sense? Why had she gotten so upset tonight?
> 
>  _“You’re not dorky-looking at all. You should, I dunno, kick anyone in the nuts who thinks so. They’re wrong.”_ The stupid dipshit had looked all sympathetic and shit.
> 
> Great. She was getting self-esteem tips from her alternate self, the one who hadn’t even leveled up yet to his magic. Fuck. Fuck all of this, that she had to go seek herself out elsewhere to figure shit out. She should leave these assholes this world, see how long they survived without her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't originally intended to continue this on, but fem!Stiles turns out to be quite angry about all the stuff that's going on in her world and really wanted to get in on the next part of the story. 
> 
> Angstier than the last part, with lots of angry!Stiles being angry at everyone, pretty much. Please note the tags for actual warnings only hinted at in the last chapter.
> 
> I think this'll be about four more chapters.

Later, after she’d punched the shit out of Peter (undead werewolves, not that much tougher than humans, note to self, good thing), told Laura off and geas-ed her fanged ass just for fucking kicks because no one, no one threatened Team Human, not even in what Laura probably thought was a joke-- but fuck Stiles’ life, seriously, two and a half alphas was a half too fucking many, not that Scott wasn’t being a bitch about the alpha thing, too-- she’d driven off in what even could Stiles would admit was a high fit of dramatic pique, exeunt dead silence in the wake of her outburst and all. Now, though, she sat in her Jeep outside her house and stared. There, plain as the half-moon, were Lydia, Danny, and Allison, all sitting there on her front steps, waiting for her to come home.

This was. Weird. So, yeah. She stared at Derek, who was standing off to the side from Scott. Scott was standing at an acute angle to Isaac, and then there were Cora and Boyd, and fuck, she still had to resurrect Erica, _damnit,_ , there was not enough time with moons and timing and alpha power with the other shit going down, how she was going to keep everyone going until the next moon when hopefully Derek wouldn’t be dead and he’d lend his power again.... Laura sure as fuck wouldn’t, even if she had enough alpha in her, which—Stiles thought not, and draining her dry wasn’t the way to solve that particular problem, even if she also wouldn’t acknowledge that Derek had wanted her back so badly that he’d put himself at risk after Stiles had plumbed the depths of Peter’s secrets. 

Seriously, the lore had only just barely been worth it. And Laura never had said thank you. Hales? Rude. 

But—she’d known that, going in. Why the hell she’d gotten so angry _this_ time at Peter’s snark, at Laura’s distrust of the humans (seriously, Stiles would dig Kate up and kill her all over again, but not for the sake of pacifying Laura), at all of the wolves’ continuing to ignore Team Human’s research about the darach and the threat that it posed instead of the alphas? Why the hell had she lost it today—and why was the Hales’ general bullshit, and not something that made fucking sense? Why had she gotten so upset tonight?

 _“You’re not dorky-looking at all. You should, I dunno, kick anyone in the nuts who thinks so. They’re wrong.”_ The stupid dipshit had looked all sympathetic and shit.

Great. She was getting self-esteem tips from her alternate self, the one who hadn’t even leveled up yet to his magic. Fuck. Fuck all of this, that she had to go seek herself out elsewhere to figure shit out. She should leave these assholes this world, see how long they survived without her.

“What did you mean, when you said you’d contacted Laura, before?” Derek’s voice got lower when he was worried or stressed. He could be a foghorn right now. And fuck him, anyway, for opening up Betty’s door without so much as a by-your-leave. This was her Jeep, he wasn’t allowed—she stifled the urge to immediately vacate the Jeep, because proximity was never a good thing. 

Although, she did have the house ringed in ash and silver, the porch was as far as anybody could get unless she broke the line. It made sense for him to get in the car. Even still, though-- Stiles could sit in the Jeep and mull over the total shit that was her life if she wanted, thank you. She didn’t need any alpha’s permission.

She bit back her first impulse, which was to snark she was surprised Laura hadn’t just told him, since, you know, Hales: fonts of information, always. This part, this, though—he’d clearly been surprised, back at the loft. He didn’t hide shock very well, at least not to her. 

“Deaton had contact information, she’d left it after you guys left town. But after the fairies, he sold the practice, gave all that information to me, made me the fucking secret keeper for your goddamned territory-abandoning pack. When I found that rune for revenge carved into that deer—that, and signs a wolf had been running—I called her up. Wrote her. She ignored it… all.” She didn’t like the shaky tone of her voice. Fucking hell, she’d been fourteen, almost a year of dealing with Peter and his ramping up strength and weird kills in the woods and stealing power from the local nodes and witches and no way to explain it to mere fucking humans, even though her dad, at least, had known what to look for because of mom. Mom had married a mere honest, non-magic human for a reason—Stiles could see why.

“Until the alpha from Monterey got killed and they called her instead.” 

Stiles nodded. Anyone who said Derek was dumb—clearly never had family die on them. He wasn’t stupid . He just had, y’know, rage issues and alpha issues and was just an overprotective, impulsive control freak with a death wish. It wasn’t like Derek wasn’t perfectly capable of logical reasoning; wanting to murder anyone who invaded his space, his territory or pack was logical for a certain definition of half-feral human consumed with unending grief. Stiles got it, at least. 

She let the silence drag out until she couldn’t stand it, and she’d been practicing. Hard. On the stairs, Allison and Lydia bent over an iPad, Danny looking over Allison’s shoulder—hopefully, they were finally checking out that rituals scroll she’d had scanned, fucking assholes prioritizing actual homework over, you know, life or death. Scott was ignoring the technology confab, instead, clearly listening in, and Isaac was turned toward Scott, like he was too embarrassed to eavesdrop on his alpha, but not too much of a creeper to let Scott tell him everything the two of them said.

At least Boyd and Cora were being all wolf-chalant, staring off into nowhere. It didn’t mean they weren’t listening. It just meant they had manners. Maybe she should have banged one of them. She was wiped from the universe hopping, still, and she was going to have to go to fucking Sacramento to get more supplies to do it again, which meant one of them would have a shit fit about leaving the territory and insist on coming along—though she could defend herself (now, if not before) better than any of them.

Seriously. Fucking werewolves. 

Finally, she broke the silence, mostly because Derek had started turning toward her like he was going to say something—ugh, sympathetic. Fuck, no. 

“She knew my Mom was friends with yours, Deaton too. But what does a teenager know?” She didn’t bother keeping the bitterness out of her voice. Peter’s rampage, once he’d killed Monterey-- she didn’t even know the wolf’s name, had just ringed him in ‘bane so he could run home to his pack—welp, she’d been learning, still was, it took years to really come into power Stiles had only learned she’d had at Mom’s last fucking minutes and fuck her, goddamnit, no one had _trained_ her, she hadn’t been warned about this. Plus, there wasn’t any sure way to track a magic-savvy feral alpha werewolf who knew what kind of magic could trace him. 

Once he’d killed Monterey, Peter’d slaughtered dozens, including her dad, biting his way through the town until he found and bit someone who’d finally turn. Fucking Scott, because why listen to her about staying the fuck out of the woods when that was where her dad had been bitten and gutted and _no_ , Stiles had no fucking idea what she was talking about, not like both her parents hadn’t been killed in the Preserve by some weird fucking shit.

Yeah. She’d get Peter before this was done.

At least she’d gotten Kate, damnit.

Derek nodded—not in agreement, she knew, she’d learned to keep her babble inside her head, mostly. She could tell when she was talking aloud. Still, Derek and she didn’t agree about lots of things, and until just about now the alpha pack’s divide and conquer strategy had been one of those things, but—he listened, sometimes, better than Lydia or Scott. They’d agreed about the kanima. About Matt. About Kate, when everyone else was running around like a teenaged asshole. Well, like a teenaged asshole without priorities, if one was going to be goddamned precise. 

Though sometimes he didn’t listen at all, and she should really just change her name to Cassandra, for all the good her warnings ever did. No one would get the joke, plus, no one would ever ask what a Stiles was, ever again.

“Can I… show something to you?” he finally asked, his voice as soft as it ever got. “Upstairs?”

Stiles snorted at the way the werewolves swiveled their heads, as one, toward the Jeep. He probably didn’t mean _that_ , but she couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice, because really. Derek Hale offering to throw her on his sword just to keep her alive out of some misplaced gratitude shit? Holy fuck, no.

_I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anyone._

“Don’t worry about the virgin thing, Alpha-man. I took care of that.” 

Derek’s nostrils flared wide, his eyes flashing, but whatever he was thinking, he kept to himself even as Scott took a step toward the car, looking—what? Mad? Fuckwit. 

Isaac put his hand on Scott’s shoulder, bless his little psychopath heart. She’d have to buy him those horrible BBQ Pringles he liked. Stiles might egg him on when they needed a wolfy distraction, but—she sympathized a little too much with Isaac sometimes. She should probably stop pushing his buttons. It wasn’t his fault her sort of best friend was kind of an oblivious ass, and then got all huffy and possessive and shit when he realized he’d fucked up. In-denial alpha teen wolves. Her life.

She guessed what was being said outside, lack of supernatural hearing or spell all aside: Stiles was awesome at logic. Everyone else started to pile into Allison’s car—and Derek’s Toyota, as well. 

“I never would have pegged you for the SUV type.” 

Derek grimaced at her deflection. “The Camaro was always Laura’s. I’d been meaning to …” he trailed off. “It’s not practical, not when there’s pack.”

Right. Though Laura still zoomed around in it like the undead bitch that she was. It was okay to think ill of the once-dead when you were the one who’d brought them back, right?

She shoved herself out of the car, slamming the door shut and ignoring the reverberation the door sent up her sore hand. Punching Peter was worth it, even with a geas to make him stay still while she hit him bloody. He’d know better than to make a crack about Lydia’s self-control or intellectual perceptions ever again—her sleeping with Aiden was dangerous, yes, but it was Lydia’s choice. Danny’s, too. These wolves—they’d lost their human graces, who knew what they’d do without Team Human and their fucking stealth to save the wolves’ asses around.

“Come on.” 

Derek, at least, had the grace not to slam Betty’s door when he got out. 

Lydia handed over the iPad they’d been reviewing, just to show Stiles the section they’d been reviewing—go humans, go, continuing on with research even when the werewolves were all having _feelings_. She saw the excerpt. Registered it. Felt some connections start to thread in her mind, tried not to chase after them too fucking fast because that never worked, and said to herself-- _okay, brain, figure it out, don’t fucking panic._ She tried a smile for Lydia on—the poor girl looked pained, which must mean Stiles looked like a godsawful mess.

Well. 

Whatever.

Other Stiles thought she was cute, and Stiles already knew this universe sucked, even if Lydia wasn’t such a bitch now Stiles was the first in their class, at least until Lydia recovered from that whole out-of-her mind thing. Everyone had to live for something. Thwarting Lydia’s OCD was the best kind of revenge.

Derek followed her into the house. At least he didn’t comment on the fact that she wasn’t supposed to be here, or her safety, or all that blah blah blah that even Scott got into, even as he was all weird about physical space since he’d started up his Romeo & Allison shit. Like she would want that, ever. She didn’t have time to listen to Scott having sex, there wasn’t room at the McCall’s to keep her tinctures out of the way, and her clearing out made room for Isaac, whom Melissa could smile at widely, not like she grimaced at Stiles. It was enough, her guardian duties, such as they were, stealing Stiles first aid supplies and chemicals from the pharmacy that could get her fired, lose her license, but still. Everyone was better off with Stiles in her own fucking house.

They trudged up into her mom’s sewing room—she didn’t want Derek in her bedroom, not when he was usually well mannered enough to call and wait at the back door. Why the rest of the pack couldn't learn manners, she didn't know. 

“You know how to do this?” She let the hard spines of the chair press into hers.

Derek arched an eyebrow, only partially seen from crooking her neck. “I looked it up on the internet. It only took me minutes to learn.” 

She couldn’t help the laugh she barked out, because at least when his family wasn’t around, Derek sassed just as much as she did. It was refreshing, since Lydia sometimes even couldn’t keep up, and Danny just didn’t give a shit about girls, just his grades and the D. Was it possible for gay dudes to be misogynist? Was that a thing? Danny was probably just an asshole like the rest of the pack—he probably only partnered with Stiles at school because she didn’t give a shit about what he looked like.

“I could try something else,” she said, but Derek shook his head. 

“If it’s what you did to Peter, which,” he held up a forestalling hand, “him, fine, but he slept for almost a week.”

She bit back the question about why Derek hadn’t made good use of the time to kill the sonofabitch but—family was hard.

“If I end up paralyzed, I’ll fucking drain your bank account and I’ll bring back Erica just to make her live with me and be my Sexy Sherpa,” she said, then found a hair clip and dragged up the mop from the back of her neck. “Come on, dude, I’ve got a location spell to do after this.”

Derek nodded, his face almost—happy?—as his claws slid out. “This is going to hurt,” he said. 

She nodded. “Always does, dude. Always does.”

She bit her lip, closed her eyes, waited. Felt the prick and dig of claws at her neck. Believed that things would come out okay, with as many of them alive as could be spared, and she’d just bring back the rest. Because belief always helped.

\--

_“You fucking wolves are always going on about your awesome senses, how you can tell when someone’s lying. Someone, one of you fucking all-knowing Hales, explain to me, huh, explain to me with your superior goddamned werewolf logic. How is it Derek’s fault, and no-one else’s, hunh, how was it, someone explain it to me with your super-wolf-powers, PLEASE, that nobody noticed that he was so fucking lonely inside his big, loving, awesome wolf-powered family that Kate Fucking Argent—someone who should have failed the werewolf sniff test if anyone should, any Argent, goddamnit, did your mother not keep tabs on hunters, take photos, tell her pups of of the hunters who went boom in the night?— Kate Fucking Argent got her claws into him and none of you—and none of you, none of you noticed until afterward, hunh? Explain it to me! I don’t blame him from hiding it from you, if all the Hale family dinners were bitchfests like this, everyone trying to outsmart each other and put down everyone else. None of you know what Derek wants, what he likes, what he thinks. You know what Derek likes? Peace and fucking quiet, and reading his goddamned books, and everyone in the pack acting like family, even if he has no idea how that’s supposed to work because you people suck!”_

From Derek’s point of view, Stiles looked a lot fiercer than her 5’2” actually was—especially holding her bat up against Laura’s throat, with Laura snarling, burnt umber eyes straining and failing to bleed into red. Wolfsbane-soaked nails were the bomb.

And then Derek’s perception kicked in, overrode hers until she was in the back seat—distant, so distant, she thought-- she hadn’t thought about the concept running this way.

Scott, Isaac, Boyd—no one was doing anything to stop her—they were all looking at Derek. Not that he knew what to say, though really, when did he? Stiles smelt of fury and grief and frustration and magic, but there had never been any indication she ever saw him as anything other than a means to an end. And Allison and Lydia—Danny—they stank of fury and right now, approval. 

Peter, meanwhile, had edged away from their witch, pulled himself up against a wall, was trying to wipe blood off his cheek. And Cora looked like she was trying to decide what she should do, which—Stiles was right. Where the fuck had Cora been?

 _She’s not the alpha, I am. This is my pack._ The feeling of wonder, of wariness, of just being so tired, so done with it all—the contrast versus Derek’s external bluster—fuck, she always had known he was a cream puff with a squishy center full of self-loathing—but the fight, after she’d left, after Danny and Allison and Lydia had stormed out as well, interesting to watch through infrared eyes and Derek’s emotional slant—after Scott measured shit up and finally said, slowly, too slowly inside Derek’s heart, and seriously, she was going to brain Scott, someday, he had no idea how his goody-two-shoes shit affected others—“Derek, I’ll work with you.” Still. Scott’s eyes flashed, redder and redder because he was finally starting to get it, see his potential—and Isaac had nodded agreement and slipped out with Scott, Boyd following with one curt nod later. 

Boyd. Master of nods.

It had left all the Hales, exeunt pack. 

“I’ll let Stiles make sure you both stay dead next time,” Derek finally said, trying not to care that they’d all hear how panicked his heart was. Ripping their throat out with his teeth didn’t need to be said. But… Stiles was right, and Laura—Laura had always been angry, and if she’d been protective, it had been instinct. And she—Peter—too. They were angry at him. He was more to blame than Stiles thought, there were ways to fool werewolf noses, but— Stiles had been a witch a long time, and Derek. Yeah. He had been a kid, then, just like his poor fucking pack. 

In the ridealong part of her brain still left to her, Stiles wondered if Derek knew he wasn’t really that old.

Derek’s memories poured on. 

What had she meant, she’d reached out to Laura?

“You,” he said, turning to Cora. “Figure out within the next day if you’re going to tell me where you’ve been all this time—we will figure out where to take it from there. If you don’t want to stay, then I’ll expect you to leave. If you join the alpha pack, I’ll kill you. There’s money in the bureau upstairs.” 

Cora nodded, swallowing hard. Lowering her eyes. He didn’t want to demand submission, but if he wasn’t going to get love, then—respect for the alpha would have to see them through this shit show. 

Laura broke the silence—“Are you going to let…” 

“Yes.” He shut her off—growled. Herded both her and Peter until their backs were into a corner, because tiny witches were scary and if Stiles didn’t trust his family, had lost her temper and snapped at both Laura and Peter when usually she kept her anger bolted down to mere sarcasm and sass, though she’d killed territorial ravengers in cold blood Derek envied…. 

He could admit half his snark with Stiles was due to the fact that someone that young shouldn’t have that much self-possession—and yet, her dynamism was enough to exhaust and energize him all at once. “She resurrected you, at my request.” Laura’s eyes flashed, but he stared her down until she blinked. Looked away, burnt umber fading to brown. Peter, of course, was already looking down at the floor, but probably only because he had more practice in Derek demanding submission. He was so tired of this. He didn’t need them. Hunh. 

He didn’t.

“Don’t make me regret this. I’ll make you both the same offer as Cora. One day. If you’re in, you’re all in, or get the hell out before my pack and I cut you down.”

Peter’s voice was silky, sneering, but he kept his eyes down. “She stands up for you and you’re smitten.”

It was a pleasure to pick the shell of his uncle up and throw it through the wall. He’d been meaning to tear out the brick.

This time, he stayed put. Didn’t bare fang. Didn’t let the wolf out. Just stated the truth, as it was.

“Not smitten.” His heart was pounding, still, hard with panic. “Smart enough to understand real power. Didn’t you say something once about the risks in not underestimating humans?” 

He faced his—god. Were they his family, really, anymore? He had a pack, those poor fucked up kids he’d fucked up even more—and they were already on their way over to Stiles’, more than likely. “This is my pack now. I made mistakes,” _c’mere, baby_ Kate’s voice still whispered, “we all did. And now it’s my turn to try to fix things.”

He was halfway down the stairs when Cora caught up, her leaps over clusters of flights show-offy, but. She still had some of that feral energy left to burn.

“I’m staying. What are you going to do about Scott?” 

He waited until they’d gotten into the car. “Communicate and collaborate. Something new.”

She was silent as they drove through downtown—when he started to turn onto Stiles’ street, she said only, confused—“I thought she lived with Scott?”

Derek shook his head, wondering where she’d gotten that intel. The alphas? “On paper. She. She’s as maudlin as me. Lives in her old house and has a stay away on it so the human neighbors don’t notice. Easier for her to do spellwork than at Mrs. McCall’s.”

“That’s kind of… sad.”

Derek’s silent agreement was tinged with… oh, fuck, she did not want his sympathy, no, nor did she want to know— she reached up, grabbed his hands, pulled herself away. Clapped a hand over the back of her neck and inhaled. Exhaled. Looked at the spot on the floor, the worn edge of the carpet under the sewing machine across from the bed.

Blinking, she pulled away from where he was standing too closely to her, and stumbled over to the seat at the window. 

“I like my way better.” It was a half-moon outside.

“I wasn’t done,” he said, after a moment, but she interrupted, holding a hand up because she did not want to look. 

“I know you weren’t, but… if you need to use your claws instead of your words, then I appreciate the attempt but anything that isn’t related to the survival of the pack should… probably wait. Okay? Figure out the alpha pack and the darach and we never did find Gerard and… if everyone’s alive or, or, re-alive… then. Me and my PTSD are fine until then.”

She wasn’t obtuse, even if she babbled a lot. Defense mechanisms, whatever. But he was fucked up, and more importantly, she was moreso, if what he was. Well. She didn’t want to guess. Plus, he was fucking her English teacher, still, maybe, and she didn’t blame him, but—she kind of did. Not like his family, not like the Argents, not like life sometimes just sucked, but… he was the king of shitty timing, at least. And she was bad luck.

“That needs dressing,” Derek finally said, breaking the silence. She nodded, then made her way to the bathroom. He started to follow but—

“Look. Can you just… not? Please? I need…” she inhaled, trying to figure out what to say that didn’t sound completely pathetic when it was now pretty clear his self-loathing center was also pretty fucking perceptive. “Go kill your uncle or something, there’s wolfsbane down stairs in the coffee container.”

Derek’s chuckle was strained, but at least he was laughing. “You can ask, Stiles, you know that, right?” His hand on her shoulder was brief, and then he was a dark shadow padding quietly down the wooden stairs, going just like she’d asked.

She could ask, sure. Ask for what, though? And ready to hear the answer? She had no idea. But being ready—that was a different thing. Battle ready? Sure. Any day. Life? Not so much.

“Goodnight,” she said—then shut herself in the bathroom and waited for the wards to ping so she’d know he’d crossed past the yard before she turned to view the bleeding clawmarks in the back of her neck. 

Alpha-mind-melds. Fantastic. Life just got weirder. She’d have to get back to guy!Stiles so he could note which vertebrae it had been, teach him the memory spell so he could learn to avoid the feelings-by-claws—and—well. Fuck it. 

He could clean up her neck, he’d had a first aid kit right there in his room.

Muttering the words to thin the fabric between worlds where there were werewolves and Stileses with sparks and darachs and Argents and Stileses who meant well and Derek Hales and Scott McCalls who were alphas or meant to be, she went to her room, crawled out the window, closed her eyes, repeated the spell, believed that the ritual herbs were just ritual and not necessary components, because fuck, she needed not to be here. Then she jumped.

The world rippled. There was the faint sound of somebody calling, but then she was through and—ugh—he needed to put a mat on his roof for her to land.

“Oh my god. Werewolves aren’t enough, now it’s me with a vag landing on my roof at 3am. Goddamnit,” he hissed, throwing open the window and hauling her in. “Fuck. Did Peter do this to you, I’ll fucking kill him,” he muttered, shoving her onto the bed.

She let him. Muttered that no, it had been Derek, and it was ok, he just needed to clean it up, okay, take note of the placement…

She blacked out before he could finish his angry, barked “You _let_ Derek…””

**Author's Note:**

> IDK, I didn't mean this to be so full of feelings, but after _Fireflies_ and then the way Scott was all LOL UR A VIRGIN SORRY WUT I FORGOT U MIGHT GET KILLED AND STUFF in _Unleashed_ , it really occurred to me that Stiles has absolutely no one he can depend on, besides himself, no matter how much he loves and wants to help his dad, the pack, and his friends. 
> 
> He loves them all SFM in his horrible, sarcastic way, and no one notices or seems to give a shit except for what use he can be to them, and that put me in mind of Auden's [The More Loving One](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15550). Things kind of took a literal, angsty, smutty kind of a turn.
> 
> (Additional post-ch. 2 note-- so now this is an AU because LA LA LA LA BOYD IS ALIVE.)


End file.
